


A Baker Street Christmas Carol

by chainsaw_poet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson had left; to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.</p><p>Well, not quite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Eve

John Watson had left; to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.

Well, not quite.

John had stuck around for most of Christmas Eve, whilst he and Sherlock – accompanied reluctantly by Lestrade – chased through London, looking for clues regarding a bank robber who had been hitting London branches dressed as Father Christmas. They hadn’t been getting very far. Vital witnesses had left the city in order to be at home with their families. Offices had closed early, meaning there was no way to access the CCTV footage of any of the incidents. The snow, and the exodus of people from the capital, meant that London traffic had ground to a halt. Sherlock seemed infuriated by all of these obstacles in his path, unable to comprehend why the city was not operating at usual speed.

“I don’t understand!” he said for what must have been the twentieth time, slumping melodramatically over Lestrade’s desk at Scotland Yard. John had just told him that no one in the Security department of NatWest was going to be able to deal with their query until at least the 28th. “Why is nobody doing their job today?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Sherlock,” John said, between gritted teeth. “Most people have better things to do that accede to your whims.”

“They aren’t whims,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m trying to find a man who has already stolen over two million pounds, for who-knows-what purpose. You would think people might want to help with that.”

John sighed and bit his tongue. He had tried to get Baker Street into the Christmas spirit. He had put up decorations – much to the chagrin of Sherlock who claimed that, unlike his experiments, they cluttered up the flat. He had forced Sherlock to sit and watch whilst he and Mrs Hudson (all right, mostly Mrs Hudson) had iced a Christmas cake. He had wrapped presents that had large labels with Sherlock’s name on them, and placed them conspicuously under the small artificial tree he had bought from Argos. The pile had not been added to since.

Lestrade, however, had no such patience.

“I’m calling it a night,” he said. “It’s five o’clock and we aren’t getting anywhere. I want to go home. If traffic isn’t too bad, I might just catch the Carols from Kings.” John smiled at that. It was good to see that someone else was keeping the Christmas spirit, even if his flatmate was not. Sherlock rolled his eyes but stood up and snatched up his coat from the back of his chair.

“Nine o’clock tomorrow, then?” he said, pulling the garment over his shoulders. Lestrade laughed.

“Yeah. Good one, Sherlock.”

“Good what?” Sherlock asked, looking genuinely bemused. “That wasn’t a joke.” Lestrade’s face darkened.

“Oh no, Sherlock. That’s not happening. This is the first time I’ve had Christmas Day off in two years. I’m not coming into the office.”

“Criminals don’t take holidays, Lestrade,” Sherlock hissed. “What if our thieving Santa tries to rob another bank?”

“Good luck to him – they’ll all be closed,” John muttered, receiving a glare from Sherlock for his pains.

“We didn’t have any luck chasing down leads today because everything was closed. Well, it’ll be even worse tomorrow,” Lestrade reasoned. “See sense, Sherlock. We’d only be wasting energy.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snarled. “We’ll just have to start even earlier on Sunday.” Lestrade look as it he were about to say something about Boxing Day, but John raised a warning hand. Confronting Sherlock with the possibility of two days away from the game was not a good idea at this moment in time. Wishing Lestrade a Merry Christmas, John followed Sherlock out of the door.

In the taxi ride home, John had thought that Sherlock’s mood could not get any worse. Sherlock spent the journey back to Baker Street staring darkly out of the taxi window and snarling comments about Christmas being boring, a waste of valuable time and a gift to the criminal classes. John pretended not to hear and hoped that Mrs Hudson had stocked up on brandy for the Christmas pudding; he could do with a stiff drink.

John was proved wrong, as usual, about Sherlock’s mood when the two flatmates opened their door to find Mycroft Holmes sitting in one of their arm chairs, sipping at what looked like a large whiskey.

“What are you doing here,” Sherlock practically spat, flinging his coat to the ground with particular venom.

“And a Merry Christmas to you too, little brother,” Mycroft said. He turned to John and produced a small package from his jacket pocket. “Compliments of the season, Dr Watson.” The wrapping looked expensive. John smiled shyly and fetched a neatly-wrapped bottle from under the tree.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft,” he said. Sherlock’s brother accepted the gift graciously.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Sherlock’s voice cut like ice through the convivial atmosphere.

“Christmas is a time for family,” Mycroft said. “I was going to ask if you might join me for drinks tomorrow evening. Mrs Hudson informed me that you will be dining at two, and then watching the Queen’s speech - I’m particularly proud of it this year. So there should be ample time for you, and John, to…”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly, stalking into the kitchen.

“Really Sherlock, this childish feud has got to…” There was a bang of a cupboard door being slammed. John flinched, but Mycroft remained perfectly calm. “Mummy would have wanted us to…” Another crash; this time, it was the kettle crashing onto the work surface. Mycroft sighed and stood up, picking up his umbrella as he did so.

“I can’t make you come, I suppose,” he said, his voice slightly lacking in its usual smoothness.

“No,” Sherlock replied harshly. “You can’t. So will you leave now?” John saw Mycroft straighten his shoulders almost imperceptibly.

“John, you are of course…” Mycroft began.

“Thanks,” John said, nodding grimly. “Have a good Christmas.”

As the front door closed with a satisfying click, John wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock was perched on the table, examining closely the contents of a Petri dish.

“Don’t you think that was a little unnecessary?” he asked.

“Not really,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “I find with Mycroft, it’s always easiest to be direct.”

“Don’t you think your brother might just have been trying to be friendly?”

“Mycroft is never “just” trying to do anything. There’s always an ulterior motive.”

“He’s your brother, Sherlock. It’s natural for him to want to see you at Christmas. I don’t get along with Harry, but I’d be seeing her if she wasn’t going on holiday with Cousin Alice. I don’t see why you couldn’t have agreed to a drink with him tomorrow.” Sherlock looked up, an unusual glimpse of menace in his eye.

“I don’t see why you have to put tinsel all over our flat,” he said, voice icily steady. “I don’t see why you wrote cards to all those people you barely speak to anymore, and never contact at any other time of the year. And I don’t see why the whole bloody country feels the need to grind to a halt to celebrate a festival of a religion that barely anyone even believes in any more! So I’ll let you keep Christmas in your way, and I’ll kindly ask that you leave me alone to keep it in mine.” Sherlock paused and, seeing the hurt expression on John’s face, added, “Disappointed you again, have I?”

“Yes,” John replied. “Although, I don’t know why I’m disappointed. Why should I expect anything else from you?” John refastened the jacket that he had not yet had time to remove and made for the front door. Just as he was about to reach for the latch, he turned back to Sherlock.

“Look, I don’t know where and I don’t know when,” John began, making an effort to keep his voice level. “But at some point, you are going to be taught a lesson about thinking of other people. And you can listen to that lesson, or you can ignore it – that’s up to you. But God help you if you choose to ignore it forever.”

Sherlock did not even look up as the door slammed.


	2. Christmas Past

The flat had been quiet without John pottering around it. Sherlock had tried watching television, but it was impossible to find a channel that had not been saturated with saccharine Christmas programming about happy little children playing happy little families with their adoring parents. Even the usually depressing soap operas seemed to be draped in red and green, and blanketed with very fake looking snow. Sherlock attempted to read some case files that he’d pilfered from Scotland Yard, but found himself unable to concentrate on the words. He decided that it was the gaudy decorations, rather than the lack of John’s presence, that made him uneasy.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the sofa. He’d merely intended to close his eyes for a second to block out the harsh glimmer of the tinsel that John had insisted on draping from every surface. But, covered up by his coat, he must have drifted off, because he was suddenly aware of being woken by a harsh light. Blinking, he reached for the phone that lay next to him; the display told him that it was exactly one o’clock.

It was as he was staring at the screen of the phone that he became aware that he was not alone in the room.

Sitting up on the sofa, he saw a figure in the arm chair, resting his bare feet on the coffee table.

“Who are you?” Sherlock said hoarsely, still blinking at the bright light that seemed to surround – no, emanate from the seated person.

“Come on, Sherlock,” the visitor said, and Sherlock noted the south-east accent. “You know me.” Sherlock looked at the person. It was a boy – tall, yes, like a man, but still with the slightly-rounded face of a child, so he had to be in the early stages of adolescence. Besides, he was wearing what looked like a school uniform; shirt and tie – both loosened at the neck – and charcoal grey trousers. But he wasn’t wearing any shoes. Ah, yes. That was it; no shoes. He looked at the face, recognition dawning in his eyes.

“You’re Carl Powers.”

“Nice to meet you,” Carl said, a cheeky grin spreading over his face.

“You’re dead. You’ve been dead for twenty years.”

“Give or take,” Carl agreed. “Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing in your flat on Christmas Eve.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Sherlock said. “Look, you’re dead. Dead people don’t turn up alive in London flats. That, coupled with the fact that I’m talking to you, means that I’m dreaming. So in a few minutes I’ll wake up and…”

“If you’re only dreaming, then it doesn’t matter if you take my hand,” Carl said, standing up and extending his arm towards Sherlock.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock agreed. “But won’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“You mean you can’t work it out this time?” Another grin and a laugh this time. “I’m going to show you a couple of things. There’s something that you have to work out. You can think of it as one of your puzzles, if you like.”

“Has someone committed a crime, then?”

“Something like that. Take my hand and you’ll find out.” Sherlock stood up and, without knowing why, slipped his coat over his shoulders before pressing his palm against Carl’s.

The dream must have changed, because less than a second later, Sherlock found himself outside. But he was not outside on Baker Street. No, he wasn’t even in London at all. He was, however, somewhere very familiar.

“You recognise it?” Carl’s voice reminded him that he wasn’t alone.

“Yes, it’s my old prep school.” Sherlock looked more carefully at buildings that walled the old quadrangle. “But it’s empty. Closed for the Christmas holidays. Everyone’s gone.”

“Not everyone,” Carl said, gesturing to an archway in the corner of the quad. Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened and the smile disappeared.

“Oh, it’s _this_ Christmas. I suppose I’m in the library,” he said slowly.

It was only a short walk to the library. The panelled walls housed incongruously bright books; a reminder that this was a place for children, however austere its exterior might be. The desks were all deserted – except for one. From the doorway, all Sherlock could see was the top of a head, covered in dark curls and bent over a large book that looked something like an encyclopaedia.

“I would never have been in the library on a day like today,” Carl said. “Not that my school had a library like this. A couple of shelves of textbooks and a BBC computer - that was it.” But Sherlock wasn’t really listening; he was walking closer to the small boy in awed silence. The child kept staring at his book, entirely unaware of their presence.

“Does he know we’re here?” Sherlock asked Carl, although his eyes never left his younger self.

“They’re just shadows of things that have been. They don’t even know we exist,” Carl replied.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Sherlock turned towards the sound of his name being called before he remembered that he couldn’t be seen. Coming from behind one of the bookshelves was a youngish woman, dressed in a cardigan and skirt, and carrying a pile of papers. Her hair was cut fashionably, but styled conservatively and she wore bright lipstick. Sherlock recognised her instantly.

“That’s Miss Collier. She taught music. She was my favourite teacher,” he told Carl.

“I can see why. She’s a babe,” Carl said, eyeing her up and down admiringly.

“Not really my area. Especially when I was ten,” Sherlock said, looking at his younger self, who looked a little annoyed at being caught alone in the library on what Sherlock knew to be the first day of the Christmas holidays.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Miss Collier repeated, perching herself on the edge of the young boy’s desk. “What on earth are you doing in the library?” she asked, not unkindly.

“Reading,” said Sherlock’s younger self. Miss Collier smiled as if Sherlock had said something amusing.

“But why didn’t you go home yesterday? Term is over now.” Sherlock could see a hint of colour rise in the boy’s pale cheeks, but he held his teacher’s gaze unswervingly.

“My parents haven’t come,” he said firmly. “I expect they wanted me to stay here for the holidays.” Sherlock felt something burn in his throat as he watched the boy – as he watched himself – try to keep the tremor from his voice, so that no one would know exactly how upset he was.

“Did they tell you that?” Miss Collier said, eyes widening in shock.

“No, but adults don’t always tell me everything,” Sherlock said, dropping his eyes back to his book, giving a clear signal that he wanted to be left alone. If Miss Collier had misgivings about this arrangement then she did not voice them.

“Well, it sounds like you have everything sorted,” she said, forcing her brightly-painted lips into a smile. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t forget to practise your violin.”

“I never forget to practise,” the boy said as if this should have been obvious.

“I bet you don’t.” There was a knowingness to Miss Collier’s response to which the boy was clearly oblivious, because he looked back down to his book without a second thought. Sherlock, however, watched as Miss Collier walked out of the library, lingering for a moment at the door to give her pupil a last glance and a shake of the head.

“I knew I’d made her sad,” Sherlock said, staring at the now-empty doorway. “I hadn’t meant to upset her; I’d just told her the truth. Of course, now I know why she was sad; she didn’t think it was natural for a child to be left alone at Christmas.”

“And is it natural for anyone to be alone at Christmas?” Carl asked, nodding towards the boy who was once again engrossed in the tome on his desk. Sherlock didn’t reply. Suddenly, the silence of the library was interrupted by a voice, seething with barely suppressed frustration, the echoed that echoed down the corridor and over the bookcases.

“I find it impossible to believe that you do not know where he is. You have one child in this school and you cannot keep track of him.” The rapid footsteps, Sherlock noted, were accompanied by a tap of a metal tip on the hardwood floor. His younger self must have noticed it too, because he looked up with recognition in his eyes, and then checked it as if he didn’t quite want to believe his thoughts could be true, for fear of disappointment.

“Mr Holmes, I am terribly sorry. But your younger brother has a habit of…”

“Mycroft!” The book on the desk was slammed shut and the young boy rushed towards the library door, stopping just in front of the teenage boy who was standing there. If looking at his younger self had been disturbing, then seeing Mycroft, aged seventeen, only made Sherlock smile. Mycroft was clearly attempting to look imposing and dignified in a navy three piece suit, despite only being a schoolboy still himself, and he might have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the relief that flooded into his eyes when he saw Sherlock. “I’m – I’m fine you know,” Sherlock heard himself stuttered, sounding anything but. “I looked after myself.”

Mycroft looked down at the young boy to see eyes that were filling, rather reluctantly with tears. “This shouldn’t have happened, Sherlock. Father was in one of his moods – some proof he was working on refusing to fix itself, and Mummy didn’t want to leave him. What she was thinking of not telling the school... I only arrived home this morning. I didn’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Hastily, the boy brushed something from his cheek as he pulled himself upright. “Like I said, I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” Mycroft said gently, with a firm nod. A man in a rather worn jumper and corduroy trousers, who Sherlock quickly identified as his old house-master, Mr Burnham, smiled and cleared his throat nervously.

“Yes, you’re fine, aren’t you, Holmes? Absolutely no harm done.” Mycroft turned to the schoolmaster with a cold glint in his eye.

“Mr Burnham, you will tender your resignation to the headmaster on the first day of next term. Otherwise, this school’s ability to lose a ten year old child will be reported in all of the national papers, and I don’t think the governors would like that very much, do you? It would be rather hard for a fellow to get another job after he’d been sacked over something like that, I think.” He looked down to Sherlock and said quickly, “Fetch your trunk. We’re going home.”

“He’s always looked out for you,” Carl said, as they watched the figures leave the library.

“I didn’t ask him to. And nowadays he has a rather irritating way of going about it,” Sherlock retorted.

“He worries about you. Constantly,” Carl added.

“I know,” Sherlock snapped, and then added more softly. “I know.” He sighed. “Are we finished now?” Carl shook his head with a smirk.

“Nuh-uh. There’s something else I want you to see.” He extended his hand again, and Sherlock took it without question.

When they stopped moving – that is, if they had started moving at all, because it was almost as if they just slipped from one place to another – Sherlock saw they were in another quadrangle. This one was not covered in snow, but it did look bitterly cold. The sound of carol-singing drifted over the chill evening air, and the stained glass windows of the college dining hall were illuminated in reds, blues and golds.

“Only ever saw this place on _Inspector Morse_ ,” Carl said, glancing up in awe at the buildings that loomed over them.

“That was Oxford,” Sherlock said. “This is Cambridge. This is my college. When are we…” He looked around the quad and then suddenly stopped speaking, as his eyes fell upon a couple seated on a bench. “Ah, yes – should have known. It’s Christmas of my final year. He came back to visit, didn’t he?” Sherlock turned to Carl. “Look, I know what happened. Do I have to see this?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Carl said, leading Sherlock over to the bench, close enough so they could hear the two men speaking to each other.

“You’re breaking up with me,” Sherlock heard himself say. Somehow, it was stranger to look at his twenty year old self than to see himself as a child. Some things were obviously different. His hair was longer and even more unruly. And, though he hated to admit it, Mycroft had been right about that leather jacket – in retrospect it was not a good look. But in other ways, it was like looking in a slightly dirty mirror. The edges of his face were softer, still boyish. His skin was sallow from a term of staying up late with books and there were nicotine stains on his fingers. Even now, his student self was reaching for a cigarette, fingers trembling slightly as he lit it. _I blamed the cold_ , Sherlock thought.

“Look, Sherlock, it was never really going to work between us, was it? Not after I left Cambridge anyway.” It wouldn’t have been quite so strange to see Sebastian if their paths hadn’t crossed earlier that year at the bank; this was, after all, the Sebastian that Sherlock remembered best. Sherlock smirked to note that this Sebastian had a hairline that was a half inch lower and had a languid, athletic sheen to his body that his older self would lack. Younger Sebastian wasn’t quite so horrifically smug, as far as he could remember. But it must have been something he had learnt in the city, because Sherlock could hear the beginnings of it creeping into his voice. Or perhaps Sebastian had always been like that and Sherlock simply hadn’t noticed.

“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” Sherlock could hear himself saying, noting the icy edge in his own voice. “Have the chaps at the bank been making a few too many comments about shirt-lifters and backs against the wall?”

“Oh come on, it’s not like that,” Sebastian said, in a way that suggested that it was _exactly_ like that. But he pulled himself together quickly. “Look, it’s you as much as it is me. It’s the way you look at everyone – it makes them uncomfortable, it makes me uncomfortable. It’s as though you’re judging everyone all the time. I can see it in the way you smile at people – you think everyone else is an idiot.”

“They are idiots,” came the reply, accompanied by a theatrical drag on a cigarette.

“But you don’t need to tell them that! Look, it’s important that I get along with people in my job. And you can be a bit… well, a bit difficult sometimes.”

“Oh, I do apologize if my social mores aren’t up to scratch for you city boys. God knows you’re always so impeccably polite.”

“It’s not politeness, Sherlock. It’s just decency!”

“Just fuck off.” The young man dropped his head and turned away sharply. Sebastian also looked like he was about to lose his temper.

“I was trying to be nice about this!” he hissed.

“If you’re dumping me, then being nice consists of getting it over as quickly as possible.” Sebastian looked like he was going to say something else, and then thought better of it and walked away. Sherlock watched himself fumble the cigarette so that it fell from his hands onto the damp ground below and extinguished itself. Hands still trembling, another one was drawn from the packet and swiftly set alight.

“I’d already bought his Christmas present,” Sherlock whispered, not really directing the statement towards Carl. “Why was it worse because it was Christmas?” Carl shrugged his shoulders in a way that might have suggested either confusion or a lack of interest. “And what does it matter anyway? I met him again a few months ago and he turned out to be a complete twat. Better that it ended when it did.”

“Not everyone turns out to be a twat, though,” Carl said.

“What would you know?” Sherlock snapped bitterly. “You’re just a kid.”

“And you’re a high functioning sociopath,” Carl replied. “So we’re probably just about even.”

Rain began to fall. Sherlock watched his alter-ego rise from the bench and stalk away into one of the staircases. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less than follow him.

“Come on.” Carl held out his hand once more. “I have to get you back in time for your next visitor.”

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock checked his phone one more – the clock read 01:59. Lit only by the streetlamps from the road that flooded in though windows, Carl looked paler – less substantial. Sherlock looked him up and down, and felt a sickening surge as he once again focused on the bare feet.

“If you hadn’t died, you’d be about the same age as me,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the hems of Carl’s charcoal school trousers.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Carl replied. Even his voice seemed softer.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Wasn’t your fault, was it?” Carl said, with a wry smile. “Anyway, I feel a lot older than fourteen.”

“You have to go now?” Carl was almost fading from his sight as he spoke. He could barely see him nod a reply.

“The next one comes at two o’clock.” The voice was disembodied and echoed eerily around the flat. Sherlock sat down in silence for a few moments, until the door to the flat swung open with such force that it hit the wall behind it with a resounding thud.


	3. Christmas Present

It was a woman, this time. She stood in the doorway, dressed in a pink party dress. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a smart knot at the nape of her neck, and tendrils of hair trailed down past her diamante earrings. Her shoes were also pink, and her lipstick sparkled like quartz. He looked down to her left hand; there was no wedding ring.

“Look upon me,” the woman said, her Welsh accent lilting over the words. “You have never seen the like of me before!”

“Oh, I think I have,” Sherlock whispered. “Jennifer.”

“Now – you remembered me!” Sherlock found himself smiling. Perhaps it was because he’d only seen her body, because he’d only been interested in the information that she could give him, but he hadn’t noticed when she was lying dead in the house at Lauriston Gardens that she was really quite pretty.

“How could I forget? I liked you. You were clever.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” She smiled, eyes pinching at the corners. “Had to be I suppose. You have to be clever if you want to have fun, don’t you?”

“Are we going to have fun tonight? Carl wasn’t much fun.”

“I’m lots of fun, Sherlock,” she said. “I love Christmas, don’t you? So many parties. So many people just a little bit too drunk. So many chances for indiscretions.”

“Parties aren’t really my thing, I’m afraid. I don’t get invited to many.”

“Surely somebody invited you around for Christmas?” Sherlock thought of Mycroft, and of Mrs Hudson, but said nothing. “Oh, nevermind. I’ve got plenty of parties I can take you to, if you’ll just have a hold of my hand.” Sherlock did as he was asked, but rather than disappear off to another place, Jennifer simply led him down the stairs to Mrs Hudson’s flat and through – literally through – her front door.

Mrs Hudson was basting a turkey that looked like it might have been meant to feed thirty people instead of three. John was laying cutlery and crackers out on Mrs Hudson’s dining table, and Sarah was arranging a small display of flowers in the centre of the table.

“Mrs Hudson, that smells delicious,” John called, smiling at Sarah over the table.

“It’s nothing really, dear. Just something I had in the fridge. I don’t go to much effort for Christmas these days, what with my hip.” Sherlock saw John and Sarah stifling their laughter and found himself doing the same. There wasn’t a corner of the flat that wasn’t decorated with something, and every available surface seemed to be heaving with food.

“You really have done too much, Mrs Hudson,” Sarah said, when she’d collected herself. “I could have helped, you know. I don’t mind cooking.”

“Nonsense, dear, it’s nice to have some people to cook for,” Mrs Hudson said, as she tossed Brussels sprouts into a pan of boiling water. But as she said this, a tired look came over her eyes, and she leant on the side of the worktop.

“Mrs Hudson does a lot for us,” Sherlock murmured. Jennifer nodded silently. Sherlock watched as John tied a piece of silver ribbon that had gone astray from a present into Sarah’s hair, whilst Mrs Hudson fretted about where she’d put the extra jar of cranberry sauce.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door and a cheery shout as it was opened.

“All right, Greg,” John called in response, hurrying over to the door to relieve Lestrade of several parcels and what looked like half the contents of Oddbins. “You didn’t need to do all this.”

“Least I could do after you offered me Christmas dinner,” Lestrade replied. “You’re sure it’s all right, Mrs Hudson?”

“Oh yes, plenty to go around. Now if I can just find the honey for the parsnips…” Sarah hurried over to the kitchen to help Mrs Hudson raid the cupboards and John handed Lestrade a glass of something bubbly.

“I’m very grateful. My sister says they’re completely snowed in – not a hope in hell that I would have reached her place today. You’ve saved me from a microwave curry in front of the Queen.”

“Think of it as a thank you for last night,” John said. “I really needed that pint. Sometimes he can be so…” John left the sentence unfinished.

“Will he be gracing us with his presence later?” John shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I left him muttering something about enforced jollity, conspicuous consumption and over indulgence. He didn’t even bother to open the presents I’d bought him – he thanked me and said he knew what they were already.” Lestrade gave John a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“This is silly, John must have known I would know what he bought,” Sherlock muttered to Jennifer. “And I said thank you.”

“Maybe. But the best part of giving a present is watching the other person open it,” Jennifer said. They turned back to the conversation

“I’m sure he’s happy enough,” Lestrade said, sounding particularly unconvinced and looking murkily into his drink.

“Yeah, in his own way,” John added dubiously.

“It’s not as if I ask them to worry about me,” Sherlock snapped, wondering why the exchange had upset him so much. “They can just get on with Christmas without including me in it. People don’t have to care so much. I don’t.”

“I think we both know that’s not quite true,” Jennifer said softly.

As the four of them sat down to eat, John stood up and raised his glass.

“A toast – to Mrs Hudson, whose hospitality and culinary talents have provided us with all of this.” He gestured to the dining table, which looked like it might buckle under the weight of all the food. Sarah and Lestrade raised their glasses obligingly and Mrs Hudson looked almost overcome with emotion. “And there’s another toast I’d like to make – to someone who isn’t here, but who brought all of us together. To Sherlock Holmes.”

There was a clatter as Sarah slammed her glass onto the table.

“No, John, I won’t!” she said. She seemed more emotional that she had been after facing down a hoard of Chinese smugglers. “I’m not going to drink a toast to that man. Not after he nearly ruined Christmas for you. If he wants to sit up there and be miserable on his own then that’s up to him. I’m not going to sour Christmas by thinking about him.”

But Sherlock could tell she was thinking about him, or at least she was thinking about the sad look in John’s eyes that he thought he must be at least partially responsible for. He was also surprised at how much her words meant to him. If he’d been asked that evening what weight he gave to the opinion of Sarah Sawyer, he would have struggled to think of a quantity that was small enough. But now everything that she said seemed to scrape against his skin and he shivered.

Mrs Hudson was speaking now.

“Come on, Sarah love. It is Christmas.”

“And the circus was his idea,” John added, smiling at her. But his eyes looked rather sad, and he glanced over to where a fifth chair stood, empty, in the concern of the room.

“The circus that nearly got us killed.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “All right - but only because it’s Christmas and because he’s your friend, John.” Sarah stood up and held her glass high. “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the world’s only consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.” She drained her champagne glass.

There was an awkward silence, until Lestrade suggested that Sarah pull a cracker with him, and everyone seemed to cheer up.

“They don’t really hate me, do they?” Sherlock asked Jennifer.

“Hate you?” She let out a silver laugh that tinkled about the celebrations. “No, far from it. John cares very much for you – and Sarah cares for you, because John’s happiness depends on you. Lestrade admires you more than he’ll ever let on. And Mrs Hudson has been working on your present since October – the one you didn’t come down to open.”

“It’s… difficult,” Sherlock muttered. “People are difficult. Illogical. Stupid.”

“Human,” Jennifer told him. “Anyway, we have to go. We can’t spend all afternoon here when there’s another party to go to.” She took his hand, and once again he felt that strange sensation of simultaneously moving and standing sill. When the world steadied itself, they were in another living room. It was one that Sherlock vaguely recognised, although it looked different in the half-light of a tree decorated with real candles and a roaring log fire. A radio was murmuring in the background; it was the end of the Queen’s speech. Sherlock only realised where he was when he saw the two figures curled up in a single, large armchair in front of the fire.

“One of my better efforts, I think,” Mycroft Holmes said as the speech ended and the radio broadcaster began to announce the next programme. The woman who was seated on the arm of the chair leaned over and turned the radio off. As her face moved into the firelight, Sherlock suddenly knew who she was. Looking unbelievably relaxed in a red knitting dress and slipper socks, his brother’s assistant reached for two glasses of wine that was resting on the side table. He hadn’t recognised her without the Blackberry in her hands.

“To Queen and country,” she said. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she added, “And to us, which is much the same thing, I suppose.” It was a curiously tender moment; Sherlock almost felt like he was intruding by watching it.

“So what do you family do after Christmas dinner?” Mycroft asked her.

“We always watched a James Bond film,” she replied, smiling. “Probably why I joined the secret service. How about you?”

“Played twenty questions. My father was particularly good at it.”

“Did anyone ever get to 20 questions?” she asked incredulously.

“Once.” A nostalgic smile played on Mycroft’s lips. “Sherlock decided that he would catch my father out by playing as a performer from the hit parade. He’d researched it especially so that he could answer questions – borrowing records from one of the boys who shared his dormitory at school. My father was completely stumped, and then refused to believe that Liam Gallagher was a famous person. So Sherlock showed him an article about Oasis in The Telegraph to prove it. There was an awful row, but it was rather amusing.”

A clock somewhere else in the house chimed six - they must have been listening to a repeat of the speech – and Mycroft’s smile faded. Sherlock noticed him look at his watch and frown. The assistant – mentally referring to the young woman in this way was awkward, but her name changed so frequently – must have noticed too, because she stroked his hair and said softly, “He might still come, you know.”

“I don’t think so,” Mycroft said evenly. “You have no idea how stubborn my brother can be. It used to upset Mummy so much.”

“You tried. I wouldn’t have any patience with him.” Her pretty mouth pursed into a frown for a split second before she said, “Don’t think about him anymore.”

“No, I won’t,” Mycroft said. Sherlock thought that he couldn’t remember seeing Mycroft lie so badly before.

“It’s not my fault we don’t get along,” Sherlock muttered. “And he seems perfectly happy without me.”

“Really?” Jennifer said. “Well, you’re his brother. And a consulting detective. So I suppose you know best.”

“You don’t think he’s happy?” Sherlock said.

“I think he wanted you to come over for a drink.”

“But he has her. He has this house. He has the bloody Queen reading his speech. Why would one thing – why would me visiting him – make such a difference?”

“Sometimes it’s only one thing. Everything else can be perfect, but without one thing…” Jennifer made a gesture with her hand that suggested everything going up in smoke. A name, scrawled into the floorboards of a derelict house, flickered back into Sherlock’s mind.

“Rachel.” She nodded. “Do you…? I mean, is she…?”

“It’s not as simple as all that,” Jennifer said. “Come on, it’s getting late. Time to go home.” They held hands and everything surged together and pulled apart again, all at once.

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock noticed that Jennifer’s appearance had altered. Her make up had smudged and her hair was falling out of its neat knot. There was what looked like a drinks stain on the hem of her dress and a ladder in the calf of her tights. She was missing an earring.

“What’s happened to you?” Sherlock said.

“End of the party, isn’t it?” Jennifer replied. Her smile was not so sparkling now; she looked tired and closer to the way that Sherlock had remembered her.

“No one to go home with?” he quipped in a vain attempt to diffuse the sickening tension that was balled up in his stomach. Jennifer nodded.

“You got it. That can happen sometimes – if you’re too clever. You end up on your own.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “About what happened to you. You were clever and you helped me. I’m sorry about Rachel.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologise to, love,” Jennifer said. There was still some glimmer left in her eyes, even as she grew paler in front of him. “Now you wait here. I’ve got a friend who wants to see you.”

She disappeared from his sight. Instinctively, he reached for the phone from his pocket; as he did so the dial changed to read 03:00, and in front of him stood his final visitor.


	4. Christmas Yet to Come

The apparition was again familiar, although this time it was faceless. A black leather mask covered its features and matched the leather vest that it wore. Around its arms were wound long, thick strips of red fabric, crossing themselves over muscle and sinew until they reached the wrists and trailed down, fading into nothingness. It was the acrobat from the Black Lotus circus: the deadly assassin.

The Spider did not say a word.

“I’ve had the past and the present,” Sherlock began icily. “So you must be the future.”

The Spider leaned forward in a formal bow, and then rose and opened out his arms.

The front door to the flat swung open, and in walked Donovan and Anderson, dressed in their work clothes. Lestrade was not with them.

“I don’t know much about it,” Donovan was saying, as she glanced around the place. “I only know that he’s dead.”

“When did he die?” Anderson said, slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Last night?”

“And was it murder?”

“Super wouldn’t say. He seemed a bit shaken up, if you ask me.” Donovan also pulled gloves over her hands.

“Strange that. They haven’t worked together in a decade probably – not since Lestrade was a DI. He swore he wouldn’t go near Sherlock Holmes again after the Larkin Road murders. His face when he saw the body of the little girl – I’ve never seen anything like it. Holmes said he didn’t mean it to happen that way, but Lestrade wouldn’t listen.”

“The Freak never _meant_ anything to go wrong. He just didn’t think. He was all about solving the puzzle. It was getting the answer that he cared about, not the bodies on the street,” Donovan muttered. She picked up his violin and Sherlock had to restrain himself from running up and snatching it from her. “Better take this.” Anderson took the skull from the mantelpiece and placed it in an evidence bag.

“But he didn’t die here?” Anderson asked. Donovan shook her head.

“No. The Super just said to pick up anything that was important from the flat. How he expected us to tell in this mess, I don’t know.”

“Will you go to the funeral do you think?” Anderson asked, scribbling a note on the bag. Donovan shrugged.

“Maybe – to see who’s there. I heard he had a brother who’s something high up in Whitehall. I don’t know who else will come.”

“There was that doctor who used to hang around with him, wasn’t there? Did see him towards the end, though.”

Sherlock turned to the Spider. In a voice that was almost imperceptibly shaken, he asked, “Where is John?” The apparition did not move and continued to say nothing. “Where is John?” Sherlock repeated, more desperate now. Still, nothing. “You have to tell me!” Sherlock yelled. “Where is John?”

He pulled at one of the strings of red fabric, and suddenly they were gone.

Sherlock now found himself in a pub. It was nondescript; a chain establishment probably, looking at the uniform appearance of the staff. It did not take him long to realise why he had been brought there. In a corner of the room, sitting opposite each other over a small table and two drinks, were John and Sarah. Sherlock moved closer so that he could listen to their conversation.

He knew at once that they were no longer together. Sarah sat with her arms folded across her front, and John did not meet her eyes, instead playing nervously with a pint glass.

“I’m sorry. I should have stayed in touch after I moved out of London. I always meant that we would stay friends. You’re definitely in my top three ex-boyfriends,” Sarah said finally. John forced an awkward smile.

“It was good of you to look me up while you're down here,” John said. “This is nice.” The look in both of their eyes implied that it was anything but nice. Sarah looked well; her long hair was now cut short and she wore a dark dress that suited her. The same could not be said for John. His hair was greying and the jumper he wore was decidedly thin at the elbows.

“So how have you been?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, you know – muddling along.” Even John’s voice was different. He sounded tired, weary. “I’ve been trying to look for a job. Applied for some administrative stuff in the NHS; I’ve got a couple of interviews in the New Year.”

“Admin doesn’t sound like you,” Sarah said.

“Until this gets sorted out, I can’t hope to practice.” John held out his left hand. It was trembling so hard that he could barely lay if flat on the surface of the table. Sherlock struggled not to gasp and saw Sarah doing the same.

“I didn’t realise it was that bad,” she said, sounding genuinely sorry. “And they’re sure there isn’t a medical reason why…?” John shook his head.

“All in my head, I’m afraid. I’m seeing a new therapist. Maybe it’ll help.” He didn’t sound hopeful.

“I heard about Sherlock,” Sarah said slowly. “I’m sorry. Did you see him before…?” John shook his head and stared at the table.

“No. I hadn’t spoken to him since before we broke up. I thought about calling him once I moved out of your place, but I don’t think he’d have been sympathetic. Besides, he pretty much ruined our relationship. I didn’t really want him to be around to do the same thing again.”

“But still, you must have been -”

“I think about you a lot,” John said suddenly, cutting Sarah off in the middle of her sentence. “I made a lot of mistakes whilst we were together.” Sarah bit her lip.

“John, we can’t do this again.” She took a determined sip of her drink. John didn’t seem to hear her.

“I know now,” he was saying. “I know that when I moved out of Baker Street, I must have been awful to live with, moping around the house all day. I know I said some awful things about you making me choose. And you didn’t; Sherlock did. I don’t suppose he ever thought that I wouldn’t choose him. I chose you, and then I fucked it all up.”

“Yes, you did,” Sarah said, sadly.

“There hasn’t been anyone else since. Not really.”

“John,” Sarah said firmly, taking his hand. “You need to listen to me. I care about you, but only as a friend. We tried it once, and it didn’t work. You – we both – have to let it go.”

“But there’s no Sherlock this time,” John said helplessly.

“It was bad when you were with him, but it was worse when you weren’t,” Sarah said simply. “I should go.” She stood up and slipped on her coat. John did not try to stop her.

Sherlock watched the scene in stunned silence. When had he made John choose? But didn’t he make John choose every day – every time he greeted John’s decision to spend the night at Sarah’s, instead of going through police reports and tracking down evidence, with a disgruntled frown and a sigh? And then when they’d broken off, John hadn’t even felt like he could come back. It must have been an awful argument, and it seemed like he was mostly at fault.

“I told him that I wasn’t a hero,” Sherlock said, to no one in particular. “But I did mean for this to happen.” He realised that he was repeating the very words that he’d heard Sally Donovan put in his mouth only moments before. “He must have known that I cared,” Sherlock continued. “He has to know that. I know I might not… But the swimming pool. Moriarty. John has to know. John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson – they all have to know…”

As Sherlock’s words trailed off, he began to hear a strange sort of laughter. Sherlock turned to see the Spider trembling with unsuppressed mirth; the figure looked like he might be close to collapse.

“What so funny?” Sherlock snapped. “This is my life that you’re showing me. This is what you say will happen if I don’t change!” The Spider suddenly stopped laughing and then Sherlock heard a familiar voice, high and thin, muffled slightly by the leather mask.

“Oh Sherlock, why so serious?” screeched the ghost, lifting one hand to grip the base of his mask. “Didn’t you like your Christmas present?” Sherlock froze as the figure peeled back the mask to reveal a smooth, young face horribly distended by dark malevolent eyes.

“Didn’t you like your Christmas present?” Moriarty repeated. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat as he tried to cry out, before there was a blinding flash of light and everything seemed to collapse into darkness.


	5. Christmas Day

Just before Sherlock’s eyes flickered wide open, he felt the sensation of being dropped on the couch from a great height. But when he looked down, he saw that his coat was still covering him, undisturbed from where he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. His phone was still lying next to him. The display read 25-Dec-2010, 07:30.

It was Christmas Day, just as it should be. The figures, the dead, Moriarty – they had all been part of a dream. Of course they had; what else could they be? His eyes darted around the flat. No one else had been here, he was sure, except for John, whose coat lay over the back of the arm chair. He must have come back late, seen Sherlock asleep and decided not to wake him.

John. Sherlock looked over to the pile of Christmas presents under the tree, all of which had labels neatly written in John’s small, rounded handwriting. It wasn’t about remembering to buy presents – not really – but that was part of it. Caring. He’d thought that it wasn’t good to care and it was even worse to show that you cared. Those rules were fine for the game, for dealing with people like Moriarty, but you couldn’t apply them to life.

Feeling the need to clear his head, Sherlock put on his coat and walked out of the door. Outside the streets, covered in slushy brown snow, were almost deserted. The sun was only inching over the horizon, and most of the light came from street lamps. As Sherlock walked into the city, he began to see the lights in flats turn on; people were waking up on Christmas morning.

All the shops, of course, were closed, but Sherlock realised that, futile as the exercise might be, he was looking for a present for John. The present wasn’t the point, he knew, but it somehow seemed very important that he should get one and that it should be perfect. If only he’d had the dream a week ago when there was still time to find the right gift, or any gift at all. Unable to think of a solution to the problem, Sherlock kept walking trying to think of places that might be open on Christmas Day other than petrol stations and 24 hour chemists.

He was on the Charring Cross Road when he decided to give up. An apology alone would have to suffice. As he turned back to walk back to Baker Street, an item in a shop window caught his eye. It was a large ornate volume, probably late Victorian, whose title proclaimed it to be an illustrated translation of the treatises of Hippocrates. It was exactly the sort of thing that John would have loved; Sherlock could see him marvelling over the age of the book, running his fingers over the thick, handmade paper. But the bookshop was closed, naturally, so there was no chance of… Unless…

Picking a stone up from the street, Sherlock aimed it at the first floor window above the shop. It struck the glass with a resounding clink.

“Hello?” Sherlock yelled up to the window. “Hello?”

Seconds later the window opened and the face of a middle aged man in a dressing gown appeared. He did not look amused.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at? It’s Christmas morning!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Sherlock called. “But do you know who owns the shop downstairs?”

“I do! But - ”

“I just saw a bloke trying to pick your lock. He ran away as soon as he saw me, but I thought you might want to check he’s damaged anything.” The man paled and shut the window. A few seconds later he was opening the front door to the shop and examining the lock.

“Any harm done?” Sherlock asked.

“Doesn’t look like it,” the man muttered. “On bloody Christmas Day and all.” He sighed and held out a hand to Sherlock. “Thanks mate, for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said. He paused and then added. “Look, I couldn’t ask you to…” He cleared his throat. “No, it’s Christmas. I couldn’t ask.”

“Ask what?”

“That book in the window – the Victorian translation of Hippocrates. It’d be the perfect present for a friend of mine. I know its Christmas Day, and you’re closed, but would you sell it to me?” The man hesitated, his eyes flicking over to the volume. “I’ll pay double the asking price,” Sherlock said quickly.

“It’ll have to be cash; I can’t do a card transaction today,” the man said. “There’s a cash machine one hundred yards up the road on the left.”

 

When Sherlock arrived back in Baker Street, John was awake – although still in his pyjamas – and sitting in the arm chair, unwrapping a present that was revealed to be three pairs of socks. Sherlock thought that it must be from Harry. John looked up as he heard the door.

“Where have you been?” he asked, looking Sherlock up and down.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Sherlock said, sinking into the chair opposite. “I went for a walk; Holmes family tradition, the Christmas walk, although its usually after lunch.” John rolled his eyes.

“You are aware that it’s Christmas then,” he said archly.

“More than you know,” Sherlock replied. “This is a present and an apology. I believed I may have overlooked the human element in some of my recent actions.” He handed the bag that the bookseller had given him over to John. “I’m sorry; I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

“Apology accepted,” John said, and Sherlock knew he wasn’t talking about the wrapping. His eyes widened as he slipped the book out of the bag. “God, Sherlock, this is an antique. It must have cost you a fortune!” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively as John carefully opened the volume and turned over a few pages, gasping at the beauty of the object. “This is amazing,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock said, adding – “You should have woken me when you came in last night.”

“Woken you? Why?”

“I slept the whole night on the sofa,” Sherlock said. “My shoulders aren’t thanking me for it.” John looked confused and shook his head.

“You weren’t on the sofa when I came in,” he said. “I was a little drunk – I’d been at the pub with Lestrade – but I’d have remembered seeing you there. In fact, I thought you’d gone out because your coat wasn’t hung up.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“What time did you get in?” he asked.

“Around half past one,” John replied. “Look, what happened? Did you - ”

“We really ought to see if Mrs Hudson needs help putting the turkey in the oven,” Sherlock said quickly. “And you need to text Mycroft to tell him to send a car for us at 5.30. And text Lestrade to find out if he needs a car too; it’ll be murder trying to get a taxi to Baker Street on Christmas Day, especially with the snow.”

“Wait – we’re going to Mycroft’s?”

“He is my brother. One visit at Christmas won’t kill us, I’m sure. Besides, I think he’s got news for us.”

“And how did you know that Lestrade is coming? I only invited him last night when he said he couldn’t drive over to his sister’s house.”

“Really John, if you can’t work that out, then it will be a waste of my time explaining it to you,” Sherlock said. John was about to protest loudly when he saw Sherlock’s smile.

“All right,” he said. “I won’t ask. Can I use the shower first?” Sherlock nodded, and watched John wander towards the bathroom, whistling ‘Deck the Halls’ as he did so.

Sherlock had no further conversation with the dead. And whilst those who did not know him well may have informed him that he did not have a heart, those who knew him well spoke differently. Sarah’s eyes twinkled when John spoke about Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson had nothing but kind words for him. Mycroft was known, if only by his assistant, to express pride in his younger brother, and DI Lestrade privately believed that Sherlock Holmes was not only a great man but a good one too. As for John Watson, who knew him best, he always said that Sherlock knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!


End file.
